


A Long Far Way from Home

by GraphiteHeron



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Drabbles, Gen, M/M, goofy writing exercises, yet another reason I should be barred from looking at pretty fanart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-23
Updated: 2011-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 23:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 55
Words: 11,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphiteHeron/pseuds/GraphiteHeron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor and Feynriel both gravitate to Tevinter to study, and end up sticking together as a couple of outsiders just trying to get by, and maybe as friends too...</p><p>Drabble-ish things between 90 and 200 words, based on prompts from a random generator and inspired by the art of naiadestricolor on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. #37 - Rude Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> It's official, too much of my writing is influenced by pretty shinies. Check out naiadestricolor on tumblr if you haven't already - that art is awesome in ways words can't describe. Also, blame a random pairing generator for the prompts themselves - I just snagged a hundred of them and I'm working my way through the list on rolls of a D100 (for those who are calling me out on that because they've seen a D100 and know it never stops rolling...percentile and D10 - if you're still lost, take up D&D).
> 
> I'm trying to get back into writing seriously after the loss of my dog (my best friend of ten years), so these are just short little things to flex my writing muscles and get back into the game of serious fic-writing. I know I have people waiting for me on things like Menagerie, but I need to get back in shape first. Also, these aren't in any chronological order (except perhaps the order the dice decide), so don't expect cohesiveness in any but a few rare instances. Numbers denote the prompt's place on my list, nothing more.
> 
> First up - the first prompt I rolled. Had a bit of fun with this one. Feel free to leave a critique (really, I won't bite if you point out something I could be doing better).

“Come on, Fade-walker. Time to go.”

Connor pokes Feynriel in the foot, but receives no response. The half-elf is sprawled out on his rumpled bed like he was dumped there some hours ago and never bothered righting himself. Connor shuffles around him, poking, prodding, muttering.

They have a meeting in ten minutes with a senior magister who will be instructing them further on the nature of the Fade. A topic they both find necessary – Connor for his research, Feynriel for his own survival.

They do not have time for Feynriel to be a heavy sleeper.

*

Feynriel jolts out of sleep and out of his soaked bed with a sharp, indignant gasp of shock, Connor standing over him with a now empty bucket.


	2. # 36 - Overlooking the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #36 on my prompt list. A small picture of two young men looking out over a city that encompasses their greatest dreams and their greatest fears (although none of that is actually in the imagery I give you).

It’s Magister Althea, this month, the tutor Connor has chosen to study under. Her estate is relatively modest, as far as Tevinter goes, but she’s up on a hill and her home has several balconies from which nearly the entirety of Minrathous can be seen.

Connor leans on the balcony railing, watching the magisters whirl around like brightly colored flower petals, and leans close enough to Feynriel that their shoulders touch.

“Nice view from here,” Feynriel observes.

“From this distance you can’t see the slaves or the blood magic. It’s about perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Generic prompt, generic fill, in which nothing significant happens. Sorry it's sort of boring. If you're wondering, this is about ten years after the Blight. I'm seeing Connor as about twenty-two and Feynriel hovering on that edge between twenty-four and twenty-five. Maybe I played with the ages a bit, but they're both fairly ambiguous about age.
> 
> With the child model they use for Connor in-game, he could really be any age between four and fifteen...unless I missed something in a Codex entry. Regardless, I chose twelve when the zombie apocalypse in Redcliffe is going on.


	3. #6 - Changing the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn't possible to change the past, but that should not prevent one from trying.

“It’s a taboo topic. Certainly it isn’t a lot of fun.”

“I have to study it anyway.”

“But why? Didn’t your father send you here to study the Fade, like the Fade in general?”

“Keeping me out of trouble, I think. He doesn’t understand. I don’t think many people do.”

“It’d be easier to understand if you explained a little. Possession? Really? Why?”

“Because…because I was. Possessed. An abomination. Someone cared enough to go to the Fade for me, to take on the demon – powerful demon, too – that had me. She cared enough to save my life when it would have been faster, easier to just kill me. Probably justice, too. People died because of me. But she gave me this chance.”

“And…?”

“I don’t want to be the only one in the world that someone takes that kind of risk for. I don’t want to be the only former abomination. I owe it to the people I killed, I owe it to her…”

“You owe it to yourself.”

“Ha, maybe you do understand.”

“It won’t bring anyone back.”

“Maybe not. But I have to try anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...Connor apparently remembers more than he ever let Isolde or Teagan believe. I had this thought that many researchers who study cancer have had or have had relatives with cancer. So maybe a mage who has been possessed might want to study possession? Anyway, an unusually Serious Conversation, but it was kind of a weighty prompt [which I may have missed the mark of anyway]. Also wanted to try all dialogue with no nametags just to see how it came out.
> 
> One more doodle for my text-based sketchbook.


	4. #67 - At a Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tevinter may be the only country as ridiculous as Orlais about parties and clothing, and, humoring his mother, Connor gets the worst of both worlds when he's dragged to a social function by his mentor. Still, not everything's as bad as all that.

Tevinter has a reputation for slavery and blood magic, but no one ever mentions the parties. Connor shifts uncomfortably in his finery, trailing after Magister Althea, reminded starkly of his Orlesian mother’s obsession with parties and fashions and why in the Void is he wearing a corset?

Right. All the rage in Orlais, a gift from his mother, it’s even cut for a man’s figure but that doesn’t make it any less annoying. Or any more manly, for that matter, and Connor’s sense of pride is feeling as bruised as his ribs are crushed at the moment.

But there’s a thrill of satisfaction in looking across the room and catching sight of Feynriel all done-up in form-fit robes and hair loose about his shoulders. Even in a corset, Connor still looks manlier.

He’ll be giving Feynriel a hard time for weeks, he thinks, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone probably has That Person in their family who sends you clothes you don't want to wear. But you love them, even when they exasperate you to no end. So you wear the clothes at least once, because you love them, even when you're exasperated and you hate the clothes and you might be embarrassed to even be seen wearing them. Connor's mother is Orlesian, and Orlais has a reputation for 'high fashion' [which, by Leliana's admission, can get truly absurd]. This moment is Connor's, "I love you, mother, but your taste in clothing really sucks," time.
> 
> The bit at the end is mostly inspired by a comment that naiadestricolor dropped on one of her pics featuring these two. Something about Feynriel looking girlier every time she draws him [and Connor's probably giving him hell for it].


	5. #75 - Bound Wrists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another glimpse of the past, following last chapter's 'revelation'. Sometimes the past is in the past, and sometimes the past leaves marks so it can never be forgotten.

Feynriel dozes lightly in the shade of a tree in the courtyard of his master’s estate. No dream-stalking, just idleness. Sometimes slow, sleepy summer days feel more restful than nights of actual sleep. Sleep, for Feynriel, is as active as full wakefulness, if not more so.

Connor sits beside him, a tome on demonic possession open on his lap. Connor’s fingers trace the ropes and contours of scar tissue on Feynriel’s wrist while he reads.

“I’m apparently not the only one with a history,” Connor says without looking up from his book.

“Got caught by slavers when I was running from templars. It was how I met Hawke.”

“And you still came to Tevinter voluntarily after all that? You’ve got stones, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many separate sets of slavers did Feynriel get kicked through before Hawke rescued him? Three? With a guess that transport called for bindings and probably some pretty rough treatment, our favorite somniari's probably got some marks to show for everything. He seems to be doing fine, however - had the guts to go to Tevinter anyway, despite everything.
> 
> Which makes Connor the one driven by the scars on the inside, while Feynriel has more or less finished healing from his own? Apparently.
> 
> Now I have to wonder if I missed the original intention of the 'bound wrists' prompt, but really, anything Really Bad or Really Sexy would have been entirely too obvious! :)


	6. #53 - A Friendly Reminder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lull in the prank war is making Feynriel nervous. He's hoping Connor's forgotten about retalliation, but...

It’s been three weeks since Feynriel left a bucket of slime propped up just above Connor’s door. Three weeks since Feynriel had the entertaining diversion of watching Connor amble around with a bucket on his head, needing to spend hours scrubbing the mess out of his hair. The robes had needed to be burned.

Feynriel expected retaliation in kind. But it’s been three weeks. He’s almost begun to think that Connor has gotten absorbed into his research into possession and plum forgotten about the slime incident.

He should have realized, actually, that no one could ever forget about something like the slime incident.

Especially not Connor. Connor forgets nothing.

“Mm…I’ve been thinking,” Connor says with a wicked smirk and feigned innocence in his voice while they stroll through the bazaar. “You’re one up on me. Just a friendly reminder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, who *doesn't* engage in a prank war at least once in their lives? I admit to having an accompanying plot to these little sketches. Connor's revenge involves purple dye and taking advantage of Feynriel's tendency to sleep like the bloody dead, if you're curious. ;)
> 
> I imagine Connor growing up to be a complete rascal, having learned the best (of his worst behaviors) from dear old Uncle Teagan. And anyone who thinks Teagan is a complete gentleman should probably reference the Origins post-Campaign bet he makes with Oghren regarding the potentially harmful consumption of pickle juice. Just saying. And Connor probably learned a thing or three before being sent off to the Circle.
> 
> Feynriel's probably fighting a losing battle, even if he is winning at the moment.


	7. #80 - Holding Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel muses on the strangely-placed physical boundaries of his friendship with Connor.

Connor is, Feynriel discovers, a tactile creature. As if real, living contact is a novelty to the human mage or maybe he expects everything to evaporate in the next few minutes, there is always a strong, calloused hand on Feynriel’s shoulder, or resting on his back.

It took Feynriel some getting used to, as his upbringing as a half-shem son of a Dalish outcast in the Kirkwall alienage was rocky at best. Touch, then, never meant anything good. But now?

Now it’s comforting. Given how much of his time he spends in the Fade, amongst the intangible and incorporeal, the solidity of Connor’s touch is grounding.

Somewhere along the way, a hand on his shoulder has become a hand in his hand, fingers twined. Feynriel looks down at Connor’s tanned fingers tangled with his own porcelain-pale, wondering when it changed and what it means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt that might have really gone anywhere. Not intended to be expressly romantic...not quite not either, so take it however you want to. Also, sorry about the lack of actual setting. I hanged myself with the imposed word limit. I may come back later, throw these sketches in order, and fill them out with actual details.
> 
> You know, make them worth reading, and all that. So...I have two guest kudos (thank you, by the way, anonymous persons #1 and #2) but no comments? As far as I can tell, anyway. AO3 is kind of a sad and lonely place if you're looking for criticism...


	8. #35 - The Cold, Hard Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every action has consequences, even 'good' deeds. And every action has implications beyond the immediate effect. At least Feynriel has a brutally honest Fereldan friend willing to club him with the truth in the name of keeping him on the straight and narrow.

Feynriel slides out of the Fade and into the waking world with relative ease. It used to be a struggle to wake up, but he’s been improving his skills since coming to Tevinter and finding a master who could teach him. This trip to the Fade was an exercise, homework of a sort, from his master. Save the girl from the bandits by slipping into the bandits’ waking minds from the Fade.

Connor is there when he wakes up, sitting in a chair beside Feynriel’s bed, staring at him with an unreadable expression. It might be disapproval. It might not.

“So. Welcome to your full potential, Fade-walker. You’re a dream-stalking assassin now. Proper Tevinter somniari.”  
Connor’s voice is even, detached. The bluntness of his words sinks into Feynriel’s gut like a lead weight. Yes, he saved the girl. But at what cost to his own soul?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *CAN HAZ SPOILER ALERT*
> 
> So...Bioware patched that unplayable quest in Act 3, and the young noblewoman remains alive and un-raped because, apparently, our boy is getting better at this whole Fade thing (provided, of course, that he's not Tranquil or dead or something). And saving a young woman from being raped by bandits is a good deed to be sure, but mind control?
> 
> Feynriel kind of puts himself on a slippery slope. This is just Connor pointing that out to him. This snippet chronologically predates just about everything else so far. *END SPOILER ALERT*
> 
> Interestingly enough, the same day I call AO3 a lonely place, I get two more kudos (which I appreciate heartily) but no comments. Nobody slapping me upside the head and saying, "Hey dipshit, you mispelled something." Or, "You could really work on adding settings." Please? ConCrit please?


	9. #48 - Aphrodisiac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Feynriel accidentally intercept a bottle of wine headed for someone else. Things happen. First chronological prompt in a series of four. Beware of drug-induced shenanigans.

“This,” Connor gasps between feverish, desperate, and half-delusional kisses, “is either –mmph- the worst assassination attempt…mm…or the best prank ever.”

Feynriel is only half listening. His fingers work deliriously of their own accord, prying off Connor’s complicated robes while Connor leaves a love-bite on the pale column of Feynriel’s throat. Nothing seems real. Feynriel feels almost numb, except for the ecstasy of touch and the persistent ache of raw need, body weighed down with a strange floating heaviness, mind fogged to complete oblivion.

He isn’t aware of much beyond the purely physical, the bliss of connection, release.

Things only get complicated when he wakes up the next morning feeling pleasantly used and unpleasantly hung-over, Connor’s arm around his waist.

Just what was in the wine last night?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wasn't sure I knew where else I could go with that *particular* prompt. Besides, it needed to get awkward sometime. At any rate, Connor's pretty much got it in one with that opening comment. Regardless, after this it becomes a question of what's more important - the one real friend you've got in the world, or the embarrassment of doing...things...while drugged?


	10. #47 - Tangled Sheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the chronological prompts. The morning after a drug-induced night of the unexpected, Connor decides a few things and more or less drags Feynriel along for the ride.

Connor knows he’s in trouble when he wakes up. In Feynriel’s bed. Naked. His damnably sharp memory won’t let him forget why he’s there either. Every kiss, every touch, every everything is etched into his recollection.

He stretches, and the tangle of the sheets pulling tight drags Feynriel back against him, and Connor decides against letting that get awkward and just curls around Feynriel when he settles in from his stretch.

“So. We got a little tied up,” he quips, because he refuses to let this little incident end a friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's more important - your best friend or the humiliation? Connor's made his choice. Now it's pretty much up to Feynriel.
> 
> It's alright, I guess, that none of my italics are showing up (I suck at html tagging things like that) because I tend to over-do it anyway. Here's a good test to see if I can get my point across without slanting everything to one side for emphasis.


	11. #69 - I'm Not Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of the chronological prompts. Feynriel makes up his own mind about how to react to last night's surprise. Much weak humor is used to deflect awkwardness.

“We…” Feynriel trails off, simultaneously comforted and unnerved by Connor’s closeness and relative humor. Given the circumstances.

“Mm-hmm,” Connor hums in agreement, drawing up to rest his weight on one elbow and his chin in his hand. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m not sorry. One, we were drugged. And two, that was really, really fun. Wasn’t it?”

Connor could be asking, ‘Wasn’t it really, really fun to dive into that pond?’ or ‘Wasn’t that party delightful?’ by the tone of his voice. None of the awkwardness Feynriel would expect, given the circumstances being a night of unexpected sex with his best friend.

Then again, Connor has a point. Not in his words, but his tone.

“Well, yeah, I suppose it was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor refuses to let things get wierd between them because of this, refuses to regret it, even if it is wierd enough to throw off what is probably a much more prevalent sense of snark. Somewhat shakier and without quite as much conviction, Feynriel seems to think that's a dandy idea.
> 
> Not that either of them will ever be able to effectively talk about this incident without choking, but they'll be able to move beyond it after a while. Whether they pick up again of their own accord or remain just very good friends who sometimes stumble into awkward situations...well, that's up to your imagination, isn't it? Or maybe one day I'll decide which scenario I prefer, myself, and write it. And maybe I'll find more awesome fanart and thinking for myself won't be an issue.
> 
> That was a joke, by the way. ;)


	12. #50 - Sweaty Palms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 4 - the finale - of the chronological prompts. A few days after The Incident, Connor catches up to the dyslexic would-be poisoner responsible for the drugged wine. A bit of intimidation ensues - all in the name of good fun, of course.

His pulse quickens, mouth growing dry even as moisture permeates his palms, trying not to squeak when the Fereldan mage bears down on him, grinning a grin that isn’t a grin, so much as the half-feral snarl of a vaguely civilized werewolf.

“I didn’t mean to a-affect you, domne, I-I swear the wine was meant for Magister Adrastos, no other…”

Two fingers under his chin, forcing eye-contact with gentleness that is as frightening as brutality, perhaps more so.

“Stop sniveling. I’m not going to hurt you.” The Fereldan’s tone says otherwise. “I just wanted to find you and tell you you’re the world’s worst assassin, that’s all.” The Fereldan pats his cheek and walks away.

He watches the Fereldan rejoin the other strange mage, the dream-haunter, and wonders why he’s still alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mystery POV! Whether it's someone's slave or the child of a rival magister or whatever...doesn't really matter. The point is he meant to poison Magister Adrastos - whose library is open to a couple of young, foreign mages at any time - but essentially borked it, slipped the wrong stuff into the wine, and then the wine didn't even make it to the intended target. Zevran would probably cry at the lack of professionalism displayed by this 'assassin'.
> 
> Fail!Assassin is wondering why he's still alive because Tevinter's a brutal culture. However, I'm going to take Isolde's word for it that Connor is at least somewhat bothered by violence, so he's basically satisfied with solving the mystery and harmlessly scaring the would-be poisoner shitless.


	13. #11 - The Bitterness of Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the regularly scheduled random prompts, in no chronological order. Angst ahoy, because in a land where powerful magisters duel in the streets, there's bound to be collateral damage, and Connor has to learn - again - that not everyone can be saved.

“No, no, please, no!”

It breaks Feynriel’s heart just a little bit to hear Connor’s voice crack, begging some intangible greater power as he tries futilely to put the little girl back together.

A stray spell in a battle between two magisters in the streets of Minrathous, and a little elf-child bleeds out through a gaping hole in her middle. Standing where he is, Feynriel can see the cobblestones below her through the void in her belly. She’s long gone, but the magic still flickers from Connor’s shaking hands.

“Connor,” Feynriel says quietly, a hand on his shoulder. There’s a bad, bitter taste in his mouth when he says, “Connor, she’s gone.”

It’s tragic, but it’s Tevinter, and there’s nothing they can do.


	14. #31 - The Smell of Old Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel pays attention to the smells of the waking world, perhaps because there is no smell in the Fade. But his upbringing means there are certain smells that he just can't identify. At least Connor's there to fill in the blanks.

Tevinter is different from Kirkwall, different from Sundermount. It’s one thing to know this intellectually, another thing entirely to smell the difference. Kirkwall smelled like dirty people and blood and blood magic. Sundermount smelled of fresh storms, cold stone, mountain winds, ancient death, and a torn Veil.

It primarily smells of fish and blood magic in Tevinter, except inside the magisters’ estates proper. There’s a smell inside the estates that he can’t quite figure out.

Connor inhales deeply next to him as they walk into Magister Adrastos’ library. “Old books,” he sighs. “One smell I’ll never get tired of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's that Adrastos guy again. He's a really cool guy. He has huge library and doesn't afraid of anything. Ahem. *cough* I figure that between Kirkwall and Sundermount, Feynriel wouldn't have a lot of exposure to old books and how they smell, whereas Connor basically grew up like a princess locked up in a castle, and old books were probably his only friends (other than Uncle Teagan) for most of his life. Just an early little snippet, mostly to get into Feynriel's head a little bit, smell the scenery instead of seeing it, for once, that sort of thing.


	15. #23 - The Difference between Lust and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Connor introspection, as he muses on who he knows, who he used to know, and how he feels about each.

Connor had a girlfriend once, in Kinloch Hold. She ultimately broke his heart, but she taught him a few things about a few things before she destroyed him.

Lust, for example, is one of the things she introduced him to. He’d thought he was in love, but now he’s older and just a little bit wiser. Hurried-trysts-in-a-closet-for-the-sake-of-relief is lust. Laura would never have just sat and chatted with him for hours, about anything, whether important or mundane or just plain silly. Laura would never have enjoyed him for his flaws. Laura would never have patiently listened to him pouring out his soul about his past and just accepted. Actually, she called him a monster without ever knowing how true it was.

Feynriel isn’t Laura, despite the similarities of coloration. Feynriel is everything Laura never could be, and Connor thinks maybe, just maybe, he might love the dream-walker. In love? That’s not a distinction he’s ready to make right now. But friendship is its own kind of love, and in that, at least, Connor knows where he stands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, one of those ambiguous chapters that can be read as romantic or not depending on the reader's lens. Take your pick. Actually, if you feel like telling me what your opinion is, I wouldn't be opposed.
> 
> Please?
> 
> No offense to anyone reading this who also goes by the name of Laura. Aside from being a total bitch with no redeeming qualities, she was supposed to be a Circle-fied adaptation of Petrarch's Laura. Instead of the cold, cruel, unobtainable beauty, she's the cold, cruel, lead-you-on-and-break-you kind of beauty. I don't have anything against any real Lauras anywhere, just so we're clear on that. ^^"


	16. #89 - There's Something I Need to Tell You...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth has to come out eventually. Connor and Feynriel met and bonded as Foreigners In Tevinter...and it was never mentioned that one is Son Of An Arl and the other is Alienage Gutter Rat. But no secrets between friends, right?

Sometimes they do this, ask little questions about each other’s upbringings and personal history. Feynriel’s been going on for a while about the human nobility of Kirkwall. Maybe he’s gotten a bit vitriolic, but they’d kicked him around worse than the other elves had, and he can’t keep the hate or the bitterness out of his voice.

Connor looks pained. Feynriel asks him what’s wrong, and his gut sinks when the next words out of his friend’s mouth are, “I think there’s something I need to tell you…”

Of all people, Connor? Then again, it makes sense, because who else’s father would have the influence to have their son sent to Tevinter to study? Feynriel still has to work at not feeling betrayed that his best friend is also one of his worst nightmares come alive. Still, Connor is his friend, and has been this whole time.

Feynriel will be fine about it eventually, but the idea will take some getting used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that knowing and liking Connor before finding out he's actually a noble (or was, before the whole mage thing) is the only reason someone like Feynriel wouldn't cut and run at that particular discovery. There are some truly shocking class differences in Dragon Age, and if Kirkwall is anything like Denerim (and judging by the number of elves scrabbling to submit to the Qun, it probably is) then the elves (and half-breeds) there are probably pretty friggin' hostile to nobility. Considering most nobility is pretty hostile to them, and all.


	17. #2 - Baking a Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor has never really had the opportunity to be self-sufficient, and decides to start. Of course, even starting small eludes him. Feynriel gets a laugh out of it.

Connor looks absolutely silly covered in flour, a bit of batter smeared on his cheek. Feynriel bites back an unmanly giggle when he walks into the kitchen at Magister Althea’s estate. Connor has his tongue sticking out, clenched in his teeth, looking over a recipe book like it’s personally insulted him.

“Having fun yet?” Feynriel trills, all innocence, smile tucked into his cheek.

“One of these days, I will do something for myself,” Connor growls. “I will bake this cake. I will.”

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” Feynriel leans over and licks the batter off of Connor’s cheek, which sends Connor stumbling back, scrubbing at his cheek with his sleeve and pulling a face. The flour on his sleeve just makes his face dirtier. Feynriel finally does giggle. “You forgot the sugar. Did you maybe need some help with this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the angst of some of the previous chapters, I thought the very few readers I have deserved something pretty silly. Thus, this. This is kind of how I am, trying to bake without pre-mixed ingredients.
> 
> Also, yet another magister that shows up altogether too often for being an original character cameo. Althea, like Adrastos, doesn't afraid of anything and she's one of Connor's favored mentors (in this silly little corner of fanfiction-verse, anyway).
> 
> On a side note, if your friends are ever bugging you, threaten to lick their faces. It usually works like a charm for correcting unwanted behaviors. It's funny how one person can be comfortable kissing and maybe even sleeping with another person, but if they get their cheek licked they freak out. Makes me laugh, anyway. Try it on your own friends and tell me how it goes, eh?


	18. #30 - An Unfamiliar Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In their early days, Connor proves himself an acquired taste. One that Feynriel acquires surprisingly easily.

When Feynriel meets the Fereldan mage in the markets of Tevinter, he thinks maybe he’s found a friend. It isn’t easy for outsiders in Tevinter. In fact, Tevinter is downright hostile to foreigners, and meeting a friendly face is a relief.

Connor takes some getting used to, however. He’s sharp, sometimes too sharp, and magisters who don’t understand his sense of humor tend to think he’s an idiot instead of realizing he’s smarter than they are. And then there’s the touching.

Feynriel’s accustomed to touch being painful, or intimidating. The friendly arm over his shoulder is weird. The hand on his back, sitting close enough to bump shoulders when they read together...it’s all very different. But, strangely, not unwelcome.


	19. #49 - Time to be Pirates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Themed costume parties are the bane of Feynriel's existence. Connor has no sympathy.

“This is embarrassing.”

“It’s an Orlesian tradition. You’ll survive.”

Connor reclines into his cozy armchair, looking perfectly at east in his strange clothing. Bandana over his hair, eye patch and all. His white shirt is unlaced, completing the storybook image of what a pirate should look like.

Feynriel struggles into his own clothing, trying to lace up a boot that’s almost longer than his leg.

“Seriously, themed costume parties are a tradition? What kind of idiots do they have in Orlais anyway?”

“Watch it, my mother’s Orlesian,” Connor mutters, finally leaning over to help Feynriel with the misbehaving boot. “Anyway, let’s go. Time to be pirates!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another vaguely silly chapter. I have the feeling that Connor's more at ease here because his costume doesn't involve a corset this time, although, that was technically my fault to begin with, wasn't it? Whoops. :D
> 
> Sorry Connor. I only torture you because I love you, honest. You too, Feynriel. I swear.


	20. #9 - Desire Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's been a demon haunting Connor's dreams since he was a child. He realizes quite suddenly that he doesn't have to face her alone, which is a comforting thought even as he does just that.

Her name is Yearn, or at least that’s what she calls herself. And she’s taught Connor a few valuable lessons about life and living. First, don’t ever pray to the Maker. He isn’t listening to the prayers of mages, but other things are. Second, demons don’t ever really die. They fail, they get vanquished to another corner of the Fade, and they re-form. Usually defeat means they lose interest and go bother someone else.

But not Yearn. She has been Connor’s personal demon since he was twelve years old. The first time he’d had no idea what a demon was, and she’d answered his prayers in all the wrong ways without meeting any resistance. Now he knows better.

And he isn’t alone anymore either. He can feel Feynriel’s presence, a whisper across the Fade, a thread of string comfortably wrapped around his wrist. With that small bit of comfort, Connor shakes off the fears Yearn tries to instill in him and chases her off for the four thousand and sixth time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four thousand and six is not meant to be an accurate number. It's closer to three thousand and seven hundred, if we're talking every night for just about ten years, but I think Connor's earned the right to exaggerate after all I've done to him thus far in addition to everything Bioware did to him.


	21. #96 - The Taste of Your Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometime after The Incident, Connor runs into a little trouble in the Fade. Oddly, the strangest memories are helpful in a time like this.

There is something wrong with this picture. The lips pressed against his, the tongue tangled with his own, the drugging kisses that threaten to drag his mind under, the silky texture of corn silk-blond hair under his fingertips...

Ah. Right. Ever since That Incident, the taste of Feynriel’s mouth has haunted some corner of Connor’s mind. He’s never been sure what to make of that particular memory but right now he’s grateful. ‘Feynriel’ doesn’t taste right here, a fact jarring enough to jolt Connor back to full awareness. He pulls back, equal parts annoyed and amused.

“You’re finally getting creative, Yearn. I’m not falling for it, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneaky, sneaky demon. Not sneaky enough, though. Connor's onto you, Yearn. And I wonder what the real Feynriel would think if he wandered in and found you impersonating him...?


	22. #26 - Constant Vigilance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody ever mentions how utterly exhausting paranoia is, especially when it isn't really paranoia because all of the danger is real.

Sometimes Connor can’t help the feeling of exhaustion that overtakes him. Watching his own back in the Fade is nothing new, not since his magic made its presence known and felt. Even political intrigue isn’t new – his father was an arl, before being promoted in the wake of the Blight.

But Tevinter…

Connor can’t let his guard down for an instant, awake or asleep. It isn’t just demons anymore, although those have gotten more insistent since his arrival to the land of blood mages. It’s also magisters, the children of magisters, even non-mages who find him offensive in some way or another. Tevinter is sodding dangerous.

“You look exhausted,” Feynriel comments on one of the very rare occasions they meet up in the Fade.

“Paranoia can do that,” Connor agrees.

“Get some rest. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

Anyone else and Connor would have declined, but he trusts Feynriel, and for just a little while he relaxes, letting Feynriel carry his vigil for him.


	23. #92 - Zombie Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel finally caves and investigates Connor's nightly nightmare. He doesn't like what he finds.

Feynriel has heard Connor’s dreams, raw terror screaming across the Fade, for years. He’s always been nervous about investigating, but curiosity finally gets the better of him. He doesn’t meet Connor in the Fade proper, but in what must be Redcliffe. Connor has told him the facts about the past, but never specific details.

Needless to say, the painfully exquisite detail of lurching corpses lumbering out of the lake and ripping villagers limb from limb is a nasty surprise. Feynriel runs through the dreamscape, up into the castle, where he finds two of Connor. The young man he knows, and the boy he must have been. The former is screaming, the latter is directing the carnage of walking dead like a conductor might direct an orchestra, and laughing.

Uncomfortable with the graphic realism of warm blood spraying his face when a corpse wrenches the arm off of a castle guard, Feynriel shatters the dream and pretends not to notice Connor falling to his knees and sobbing into the dream-dust of the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Redcliffe part of Origins appeals to every zombie fan, I think. It is a lore-friendly zombie apocalypse. Right there. All-night attack and everything. Although, I somehow doubt either of the lads likes dreaming about it...
> 
> Whoo...that's going to be awkward conversation later, isn't it?


	24. #76 - The Patter of Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet, rainy night, the sound of water against the window, a friend with sharp elbows. Life is perfect.

It never snows in Tevinter. Not even in the dead of winter, although it does rain a lot after summer cools down.

Feynriel closes his eyes and listens to the rain lashing against the glass of the library window, safe and warm inside. He leans comfortably against Connor on the couch they share.

Connor’s nose-deep in a text about demons, but reading slowly – if the speed at which Feynriel hears him turning the pages is any indication. The sounds of rain and turning pages and the crackle of a fireplace on the other side of the library are comfortably lulling.

Until Connor elbows him in the neck, grumbling, “Move a little. My arm’s asleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe a boring chapter, but after the zombie apocalypse last chapter I figured the lads needed a little peace and quiet. Authorial sadism balanced by authorial apology? Honestly I don't think any amount of apology will make up for what I've done to these boys. Really.


	25. #82 - Bloodied Knuckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel disapproves, cleaning up Connor after a fight, until he learns why Connor was fighting in the first place.

Connor hisses through his teeth as Feynriel cleans the blood from his hand with a wet cloth. The Fereldan’s knuckles are torn up like he’s just knocked someone’s teeth out, and the dark, stormy expression on his face suggests he may have done just that.

“So, I thought you didn’t like violence,” Feynriel begins conversationally.

“I don’t like lethal violence. Doesn’t mean a good fistfight won’t solve a few things.”

“Right.” Feynriel sets aside the cloth, and begins bandaging the damage. “So, who did you hit?”

“Magister Ireta’s brat.”

“And why did you hit Magister Ireta’s son?”

“He…said things. Little shit deserved it.”

Feynriel sighs; Connor is acting like such a child. “What did he say?”

Connor shifts uncomfortably. “Things. Insulting things.”

“Connor…”

“He insulted you,” Connor mutters viciously. “You’re the only real friend I’ve got in this place and I’m not going to stand by and listen to that ass mouth off about how my half-knife-ear friend should…I just didn’t want to hear it. So I shut him up.”

Surprised warmth tingles through Feynriel’s chest. He’s never had his honor defended before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When your friend is of a discriminated-against minority, sometimes you have to break a few faces. I have hit people on behalf of my special-ed friends, my color-other-than-white friends, and my physically disabled friends. Feynriel's half elf and an unconventional kind of mage in Tevinter, so it's Connor's turn to step up and knock a few heads.
> 
> The magister's son was making commentary on how the half-breed's place ought to be in the slave pens in amongst other offensive remarks, if you're curious as to what could make Connor "I-don't-like-violence" Guerrin haul off and kick the shit out of somebody. That said, an open mind is the key to world peace. If you're going to be a bigot, don't do so in front of your victim's friends, or you'll probably go home bleeding and missing teeth.
> 
> Also, never punch someone in the teeth -- you'll just split your knuckles and you'll be hurt worse than they will. Aim for the kidneys, the V of the ribs, box their ears, but never punch them in the teeth. Are you listening, Connor?


	26. #57 - Nurse back to Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor gets a bad case of the flu, and is at the rather inept mercy of Nurse Feynriel.

“Scoot over.”

Connor weakly complies, wriggling sideways in bed until there’s enough room for Feynriel to sit. The tray in his friend’s hands might catch his attention if his stomach weren’t churning. And if he could smell the contents. His sinuses are completely blocked, however, and the unmentionable amount of mucus in his stomach is most of why he’s so nauseated.

“Soub?”

“My mother’s recipe. You’ll be better in no time.”

Connor finds a spoonful of hot soup in his mouth before he can protest and a small, heated bag of rice dropped on his forehead in the same moment. With his arms trapped under his blankets, he ends up chewing on the spoon and being blinded by the bag of rice falling over his eyes, unable to adjust anything to a more comfortable position.

“You’re dot bery good ad this dursig thig, are you?”

“Oh, shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you don't read sicky, the translation of Connor's dialogue is as follows:
> 
> "Soup?"
> 
> "You're not very good at this nursing thing, are you?"
> 
> It's wonderful to have a friend who cares enough to take care of you. Not so wonderful when they're fifteen degrees off competent. Feynriel's got all the right ideas. Hot soup, a warm compress to help drain the sinuses...he's just not going about it quite right. Which is all my fault, really, because I'm the dumbass writing this out, but...I'm sorry, boys, I really am. (I'm not really)


	27. #81 - Childhood Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all of Connor's history is angst. It can't be, when he's the nephew of the family troll.

“Oh, I must have been five years old,” Connor says, eyes dancing with remembered mischief. They sit on the floor of Feynriel’s bedroom. Somehow the conversation has wandered to their childhoods.

Feynriel finds he’d rather listen to Connor’s memories than relate his own.

“My mother, well, she sleeps like you, a bit. Can’t wake her up. So one day, I catch my uncle sneaking around with this dye pot in hand, and he shushes me before I can ask what he’s up to. Then he goes into mother’s room, right? So he comes out a bit later, and tells me we should run now, and only come back when we hear screaming. Then we can be knights in shining armor and ask what’s wrong.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“Ha! Well, so, we go downstairs, and not fifteen minutes later, we hear screaming. Mother screams like a banshee when she’s upset. So Uncle Teagan and I run back up to see what’s wrong… Apparently, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Uncle Teagan had dyed her hair bright pink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think being related to Teagan Guerrin could be either totally hilarious or totally terrifying, depending on who the current focus of his sense of humor happens to be at any given moment. I also got a sort of one-sided vibe in Origins, like maybe Isolde had a thing for Teagan. Maybe he also had a thing for her. Maybe not. There was kind of a zombie apocalypse being a distraction in the background at the time.
> 
> I choose to believe for this verse that Teagan was making an attempt to maintain the brother/sister boundary with Isolde by being the obnoxious brother who torments his sister and probably makes her cry in the name of entertainment. Because siblings are cruel like that, even when they love you enough to brave certain death if they think it'll help you survive.
> 
> On a side note, a couple of chapters back was my quarter-way-done mark. I have a hundred prompts to fill, but I'm leaving myself room to A) give up or B) go overboard, so I actually have no idea how long this will ultimately end up. Still, I have never never never ever ever ever posted anything with 25+ chapters before.


	28. #91 - Conjure and Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mage duels in Tevinter can be horrifying, deadly things. They can also be kind of silly.

The problem with being who they are is that neither Connor nor Feynriel fits in anywhere in Tevinter. And the problem with standing out is that they draw a lot of hostility. Mostly Connor, though, because the magisters are inexplicably afraid of Feynriel.

And sometimes their strolls through the markets are interrupted by, “You! Dog-lord! Stand and face me!”

And Feynriel can simply stand back and watch the challenger summon demons to throw at Connor, who grins, and meets the summons with a conjuration of his own.

Maybe one day the magisters and their families will learn that national pride simply isn’t worth the trouble of being chased from one end of Minrathous to the other by a swarm of conjured bees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed that spell in DA2. Creation used to be a dangerous school of magic, then they took out the bees and the grease. Given that Connor is an Origins character, however...


	29. #64 - Intimate Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel stops, and thinks, and realizes he knows more about Connor Guerrin than he thought he did.

Feynriel’s first instinct when he finds out that Connor has more social depth to him than previously thought is to think he never really knew the Fereldan mage.

But that isn’t true.

Noble or not, he knows Connor.

He knows all of Connor’s greatest hopes, his dreams, his paralyzing fears. Knows he has an unholy love of candied apples, reads more than two hundred words per minute if he isn’t distracted, knows he had a girlfriend who broke his heart back in the Circle. Feynriel knows that Connor can handle himself in a fistfight and hold a sword, but the idea of actually hurting someone turns his stomach.

Connor can handle death and handle violence, but never both at once. Feynriel knows the man grown and the scared little boy behind the masks and smiles, knows the incredible memory that won’t let Connor forget a single detail, especially when to forget is all he wants, knows the different ways his eyes shine when he’s had a revelation in his research or when he’s got a prank in mind.

In the face of all of that, maybe noble birth is the one thing that never mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fewer than 200 words by an extremely narrow margin. I replaced a lot of prompts, looking for inspiration, and "I never really knew you" fell prey to "Intimate knowledge" in the #64 slot, and serve more or less the same purpose. Or maybe the second one just cancels out the first one.


	30. #95 - A Shoulder to Cry On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel gets a letter. Connor's there to help him through the grief.

It takes Connor a while to find Feynriel – which worries him; they’re always together. He finds his friend, finally, in a remote corner of his master’s library, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, curled up around a tear-stained parchment.

Connor can’t get to him fast enough. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong just yet. It’s probably something in the letter. What matters is that his friend needs him. Connor kneels beside Feynriel and opens his arms, and Feynriel takes the offered contact, muffling his sobs against Connor’s neck.

“I’ve got you,” Connor murmurs, gently rubbing Feynriel’s back. “Let it out, it’s okay.”

Later, they’ll talk about the source of Feynriel’s grief. Until then, Connor’s more than willing to be his friend’s crying shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a letter from Hawke. Keeper Marethari was Feynriel's trusted mentor and one of his saviors for nearly four years. She made his continued existence possible, taught him about his mother's people...and died a horrible and likely preventable death because she couldn't let her student pay her own damn debts.
> 
> Feynriel isn't taking the news well.


	31. #85 - Brave My Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lads trade demons for a night. Maybe they shouldn't.

Sometimes Connor forgets just how powerful Yearn really is, considering how easily she usually allows him to drive her off. And then sometimes he makes her angry, and all he can do is run for his life across the wasteland of the Fade.

This time he runs into Feynriel, caught in his own hurricane of rage and hunger demons – the ones who lack the sophistication to attempt seduction, the ones that are most dangerous in mobs.

“Trade you,” Connor offers, jerking his thumb back at the furious desire demon chasing him.

“Ah,” Feynriel agrees, engaging Yearn and leaving Connor to the flood of other demons.

So this is what his nights are like? Connor thinks, dropping a grease spell in the mob and watching the rage demons inadvertently set the hunger demons on fire. Suddenly, just having Yearn to contend with doesn’t seem quite so arduous.

Judging by Feynriel’s stream of Dalish invectives, he’s having the same thought in reverse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How'd #95 show up twice and this one not show up at all? WTF, AO3, seriously. Or maybe I'm blaming the site for my own screwy internet connection that keeps hopping pages randomly? Can't win for losing some days.
> 
> That said. I finally have two commenters! I adore you both!
> 
> Also, no matter how bad you think your problems are, you can usually find someone whose problems make yours look not-so-bad. Connor hates Yearn, but he's been dealing with her for so many years that he's kind of used to her, whereas Feynriel hasn't met her before. On the flip side, Yearn has kept Connor relatively safe from lesser demons, so he's not used to the flood of demons Feynriel has to contend with regularly.
> 
> I honestly didn't know how else to tackle 'brave my storm'. Haven't I been writing fills for prompts that could double as fills for this, here and there? So...let's be literal! And I officially don't know what I'm talking about...


	32. #43 - Long Walks, Late at Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel would like to be in bed right now, but Connor has places to be and things to show him. Part 1 of 2.

“I don’t know why I didn’t ask before, but what is it with you and always walking everywhere? You could be reading right now, or sleeping.”

Connor grins at him, gesturing to the dark quiet of Minrathous in the dead of night, when no one else walks the streets. Feynriel is cold, but Connor is Fereldan, and apparently Fereldans don’t get cold.

“If I weren’t here, you’d never get any exercise!” the human chirps, and Feynriel kicks him. Connor laughs, linking their arms together and dragging Feynriel at a run up a steep road to higher ground, only stopping when they’ve found the roof of a council building.

“What–“

“Shush, just look up.”

Connor tilts Feynriel’s head up with fingertips under his jaw, and Feynriel stops protesting when he sees the expanse of Tevinter sky above, stars spread out like a celestial blanket over the world.

“Wow.”

“And this is where I disappear to every night.”

Feynriel sees the beauty above him, feels the warmth of his friend’s fingertips beneath his chin, and thinks that he might let Connor drag him out on these long-ass walks more often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to take Varric's word for it that rooftops are so easy to get to that anyone can do it. Also, stargazing is more fun in a pile of friends, especially during meteor showers.
> 
> After the stars, dawn, next chapter =>


	33. #94 - First Light of Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They spend the night out on the rooftop, because the stars give way to another kind of beauty, and Connor isn't going to let Feynriel miss it. Part 2 of 2.

Connor alternates between stargazing and watching Feynriel sleep until the darkness of night gets thinner, and he knows morning is almost here. It’s cold atop the council building, even he has to admit that, and he’s grateful for the tiny, thin blanket he thought to pack before coming out here. Feynriel has stolen most of the blanket, however. Stolen the blanket and then huddled close, somehow managing in his sleep to tuck his head under Connor’s chin.

He nudges Feynriel awake. “Psst. You’ve got to see this.”

“What?” Feynriel grumbles, not keen on being awake.

“Just keep looking that way,” Connor points, burying the tip of his nose in Feynriel’s braided hair for warmth.

For a few minutes, nothing happens. And then the darkness gives way to grey, and then shatters entirely, dawn’s rosy-fingered aurora stretching up over the horizon like an awaking sleeper, crystalline and pure.

“Wow…”

“I did drag you out here for a reason, Fade-walker. Now share the damn blanket, will you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See if you can catch the homage to one of the greatest bards of all time hidden in there, hmm? Sorry, my English class is informing my writing again.
> 
> That happens a lot. The problem (here, at least) is that community colleges are sometimes just that much fun, and then your classes start to leak into everything else you're doing.
> 
> Dawn is pretty. I haven't seen one personally in a little too long, though.
> 
> Also, I have one commenter vote on the lads evolving into an actual pairing, eventually (that would be, what, friends-to-lovers?). I may not need to think for myself here. ;P I can, honestly, just not so much for fanfiction.


	34. #8 - The Thing You Fear the Most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yearn makes another appearance, and pushes Connor to his limits yet again.

“You amuse me, mortal boy, clinging to the fool notion that the woman was your savior.” Yearn curls clawed fingers gently through Connor’s hair, a parody of a mother’s caress. Her lips feather against his ear when she says, “She sold you, lovely boy. In return for a moment’s peace and power enough to stop the Blight, she gave me your soul. You, my darling, are mine.”

“No!” Connor snarls, batting Yearn away from him. She floats nearby, deeply amused.

“Oh? If not by her designs, then why am I still here?”

“You’re still here because you don’t know when to give up. I trust her. She wouldn’t deal with you.”

“You can believe that all you like, darling. It does not change what is true. But why do you resist? Come to me. Think of all we could do together.”

“I didn’t like that the first time, Yearn. Go away.” Connor can’t help the tremble in his voice. Yearn doesn’t miss it either. She fades away, throaty laugh echoing through the wasteland of the Fade, and Connor wonders how many more times he can face his deepest fear without breaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, no Feynriel this chapter. I need to write more about that guy. But I write more about Connor because Feynriel got a lot more in-game airtime. And Yearn...will she ever get the hint and leave Connor the hell alone? Not as long as I keep writing, I think. It's getting to the point, though, where I should probably add "Desire Demon" to the character tag -- Yearn is definitely a character. Major friggin' antagonist, here.
> 
> Also, my two sole commenters have both voted "eventual friends-to-lovers". Well boys, you heard the ladies.


	35. #33 - If Looks Could Kill...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lads have a little fun at the expense of an enemy.

The guest speaker will show up for the forum in about an hour. Until then, the gathered magisters, apprentices, and foreign scholars are busy with free food and costly gossip. Feynriel is paying more attention to the potential of tasty snacks than anything until he feels Connor’s fingers trailing down his arm.

He’s used to the contact but not the form of it; this feels almost seductive and they aren’t…well, barring that one time, at least. He meets Connor’s eyes and Connor winks, glancing sideways briefly. Feynriel discreetly takes a peek and sees the bruised countenance of Magister Ireta’s son – the young man who apparently hates Feynriel for being a half-breed and who must hate Connor for all of the damage done to his face. If looks could kill, Feynriel and Connor both would be piles of ashes on the floor.

Feynriel understands what Connor’s up to when those teasing fingers reach up to cup his face, leaning into the contact with a soft smile. Their spiteful watcher’s sparse un-bruised flesh flushes scarlet with fury, and turns purple when Feynriel drops a kiss on the palm of Connor’s lovingly-bandaged hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably write a chapter on what Ireta's son (who still has no name) actually said. In addition to the 'half-knife-ear should take his place in the slave pens', he also made some assumptions on the nature of their relationship and was disgusted at the notion that they might be lovers. Hence, Connor's head-fucking him a little bit by overtly flirting with Feynriel, who cottons on pretty fast and has a little follow-through of his own.
> 
> Also, for a quasi-pacifist, Connor managed to put the hurt on this guy pretty severely.
> 
> Anyway, am taking name ideas for Ireta's son if you feel like dropping suggestions. The magisters' names have been themed so far. Althea (a spirit healer) = the healer, Adrastos (a battlemage) = undaunted, Ireta (a very angry woman) = angry. I have other magisters with themed names like so. I have no name for most of their children, even a semi-important troublemaker like the unimaginatively named "Ireta's son/brat". So, suggest away! You know I'm listening.
> 
> And the literary reference a few chapters back was Homer. Odyssey. Dawn's rosy fingers. I should really finish reading, but I'm finding Odysseus to be a very tedious (and wimpy) hero. Connor and Feynriel, on their worst days ever, put together, do not cry as much as Odysseus. Irrelevant. But I needed to say that regardless. I'm sorry for spamming you. ^^"


	36. #78 - Broken Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel muses on Connor's bitterness toward faith, wondering if the spiritual betrayal of Connor's past will color his ability to trust - namely, trust Feynriel.

Most humans, and even a solid portion of city-born elves, place their trust and souls in the hands of the Chantry and into the keeping of the absent Maker. Feynriel notices Connor’s lip curling in disdain when they walk by the Chantry.

He’s walked in Connor’s dreams, sometimes his waking mind, usually inadvertently but sometimes on purpose. He’s seen the scared little boy kneeling in prayer, begging an absent god to protect his family. He’s seen the shadows of the Fade shift in response, seen the devastation that followed.

The scarlet-sun emblem of the Chantry stands bold and proud before them. Connor snorts and averts his eyes, walking faster.

Feynriel follows, fingers tangled with Connor’s, wondering if – after that tragedy – his friend will ever have faith in something. Anything, beyond faith in cynicism.

Maybe, he wonders, faith in me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Feynriel. Connor trusts YOU. Just not the Maker, or any real religious faith. Thanks, Yearn. You're such a joy...


	37. #86 - Turning Tables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel's winning the prank war. Well, not for long...

Feynriel has probably forgotten that he’s winning their prank war, Connor’s let retribution slide so long. But he’s had more important things to do than get back at his friend for the bucket of slime over his door.

And if there’s anything he ever learned from Uncle Teagan, it’s to lull his victim into a false sense of security before striking.

Connor sneaks into Feynriel’s room while the somniari is asleep, and Feynriel sleeps like the dead, so maybe sneaking is unnecessary. And he has his revenge, which is compounded after Feynriel bathes the next morning.

Connor only dyed Feynriel’s hair purple. The bath ran the dye, however, and Feynriel is completely purple – hair, skin, everything. Like a desire demon, only male, and – a treacherous corner of Connor’s mind adds – comelier.

Feynriel sputters, irate, and Connor just grins, twiddling his fingers in a silly little wave, trilling, “I win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometime after "A Friendly Warning". The purple dye I promised... It'll wash out eventually, but until then, Feynriel will be turning a few heads everywhere he goes.
> 
> The prompt was likely intended for some other kind of fill, but I thought that after a few weighted chapters, I needed to write something silly. Also, since the two readers I have that talk to me voted for eventual romance, well, there's just that little hint of attraction there. Or maybe Connor's just biased in Feynriel's favor because he hates real desire demons? Your choice;)
> 
> Honestly, Feynriel probably looks damn good in purple. Skin a delicate lilac, hair a rich violet...probably mock-strangling Connor for turning him purple in the first place...
> 
> And yes, that was almost a Charlie Sheen moment at the end there. I had, "Winning," as Connor's victory trill until I remembered that catchphrase had been taken.


	38. #16 - Buried Wants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor comes to an uncomfortable realization about Feynriel at the incessant prodding of his personal demon.

One learns to filter one’s self when constantly under scrutiny, especially the scrutiny of a demon. And when one’s demon is a thing of desire, one learns to dig a hole and bury all of one’s wants. No idle fancy or lifelong dream is worth the anguish of possession.

Not again. Never again.

But Yearn, for all that she’s unable to grasp the concept of having long overstayed her welcome, is perceptive. She knows what Connor desires before Connor himself does more often than not. She can take anything out of his head that has ever flitted through. Sometimes she preys on desires that were nothing more than a fleeting thought at their inception, chased away by reason before they ever fledge.

She digs, and digs, and finds desires buried so deeply that Connor has forgotten they exist. Or perhaps never known of. She takes Feynriel’s form, his voice, even matches the color of his eyes. She digs up thoughts about Feynriel that Connor is sure she’s making up, except she can’t just make him think things he isn’t already thinking.

Understanding comes later. Connor can only bury his desires deeper and hope for peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think demons can make you think things you haven't thought already. Of course, the relevance and effectiveness of what thoughts they pull out of your head are relatively hit-and-miss (see the Origins sloth demon, etc...). And sometimes the demon's smarter than you are. Poor Connor. That awkward moment when you realize you've always been crushing on your best friend, and the demon really ISN'T making shit up as she goes along...
> 
> Sorry, boy-o. The fans (all two of them) voted. Yearn really isn't bullshitting you there.
> 
> Currently listening to "I'm Still Here". Johnny Rzeznik, not Vertical Horizon. Treasure Planet soundtrack. Excellent coming-of-age song, managing to be both completely universal and deeply personal. I'm using it for Connor at the moment. You didn't need to know that, but there you have it.


	39. #77 - Life Isn't Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel muses on daddy issues and the injustices of life. Also, irony.

Connor describes his father as a cold man, politically driven and emotionally absent, constantly disappointed in everything Connor has ever done. And even that makes Feynriel more than a little jealous. His own father never wanted anything to do with his half-bred accident. The Antivan merchant cared enough to not want Feynriel dead, at least.

Of course, the templar that was supposed to help Feynriel pointed him to a ship’s captain who in turn sold him to Tevinter slavers. Sometimes he can’t win for losing.

But for as exacting and sometimes emotionally cruel as Eamon Guerrin sounds, as described by his haunted son…the man still cared, still cares. Cared enough to be disappointed, even, and Feynriel wishes desperately that his own father had even that much interest.

All Feynriel has to speak of for his heritage is a set of awkward features and the ability to fit in neither human nor elven culture. His father abandoned him twice, and his mother’s people tolerated him to a point. But if life were fair, he’d probably be short a very good friend.

Funny how things work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly not trying to villify Eamon, even if I don't generally think highly of him. We know he's capable of being loving and deeply thoughtful. We also know he can be truly terrible at communicating his affection. And, he's a politician to his core, which means the warmth and affection sometimes get lost in the avelanche of expectations.
> 
> He doesn't get Father of the Year awards, unless you compare him to Vincenzo, who tells his elven sex-toy he doesn't want anything to do with her or their baby, and only manages to give a damn when Feynriel is yea-close to getting killed. He doesn't want a teenage boy to die. Makes him 'not a monster', but he'll never be a father. Oh, and then suddenly slavers. Great job looking out for your kid there, Vincenzo. And emotional vacancy is still better than what Vincenzo offers Feynriel - which is nothing, really. And according to Caress, a relationship with his father is one of Feynriel's strongest desires/empty regrets.
> 
> Ironically, if everything hadn't gone shit-wrong at almost every turn, he might not have met Connor. So, he can only stay sour for so long before moving on. Where would anyone be without serious daddy-issues? Oh so very few of us have dads who are only guilty of being too damn awesome, after all.
> 
> Long note is long. I'll...just stop typing now.


	40. #93 - Tending to the Wounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel has some height-induced head injuries. Connor renders assistance.

“Stop laughing.”

The order seems to have the opposite of the intended effect, and Connor breaks out in peals of unrestrained laughter. He calms after a moment, but Feynriel’s ego has already taken all the bruising it can handle for the day.

“Sorry,” says Connor, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s your own fault you know. If you weren’t absurdly tall, this wouldn’t happen.”

Every low shelf, cabinet door, tree branch today has collided with Feynriel’s head. Obstacles that Connor, standing four inches shorter, has managed to walk under without difficulty.

“Just because you’re short…”

“No need to get nasty.” Connor chuckles again, leaning over the chair Feynriel is sitting in, weight braced on one hand and the other hand resting on Feynriel’s head. “Here, let me help.” Healing magic shimmers from Connor’s fingers until Feynriel’s head is only a little tender.

The next thing Feynriel feels is the gentle pressure of Connor’s lips against his forehead.

“Feeling better?”

“…Yeah.”

If asked, Feynriel will vehemently deny the fluttering in his stomach and the mythical power of kisses mending small hurts both. He’d be lying, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, naidestricolor draws Feynriel taller than Connor. I'm going to take that to mean that the former takes after his tall Antivan father, and the latter takes after his petite Orlesian mother. And being short has its advantages, trust me.
> 
> Also, forty chapters and a first kiss. Sort of. It's really forty chapters. It's only sort of a first kiss. Maybe enough to prove that Connor isn't the only one with feelings he hasn't mentioned yet.
> 
> My dice seem to like nineties all of a sudden. I never rolled this high while I was gaming...only since I started this project.


	41. #51 - A Cold Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor can sometimes be an ass, even when he doesn't mean to be. Feynriel isn't going to put up with any shit, however, even if he can't stay mad for long.

Maybe while they’re walking through the docks is a bad time to be a complete prat. People are looking at them, for one. It’s a sign of weakness, like blood in the water, and dangerous in a nation full of sharks. Connor doesn’t even know why he’s baiting Feynriel. He likes Feynriel, doesn’t want to argue with him, and can’t seem to shut himself up.

Eventually he regains control of his runaway mouth and stands out on a dock, facing the ocean, collecting his thoughts. Organizing an apology. “I’m sorry.” Inadequate, but he can’t find the right words right at the moment.

The pressure of a foot against the shelf of his hips is puzzling at first, but with the shove comes clarity. Connor topples off the dock and into the ocean. The water is surprisingly cold, given the climate. Quite the shock.

He coughs and splutters on his way back up, trying to drag himself back up onto the dock, weighted down by heavy robes.

“Alright,” he coughs, looking up at Feynriel. “I deserved that.”

The tiny smile flitting at the corner of Feynriel’s lips suggests that Connor might be forgiven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've all had those moments, I think, or maybe it's just me, where your brain is screaming, "WTF?! Shut up, idiot!" And your mouth isn't listening, and keeps going on and on and on with provocative commentary. You start fights with the people you don't want to fight with and why? No reason, other than your mouth is running away from you.
> 
> I seem to be giving Connor a lot of my personal flaws...and none of my very few virtues. Eh, sorry buddy. I'll make it up to you eventually...


	42. #25 - Falling to Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of "A Shoulder to Cry On", part 2. Connor takes Feynriel somewhere more private than the library to fall apart.

Feynriel isn’t aware of how he makes it from the library to Connor’s room, but Connor locks them in the safe privacy of his own bedroom and sits Feynriel on the bed next to him so that Feynriel can be a sobbing mess. He shakes apart and keens ungraceful, animal sounds of grief, buried against Connor’s abdomen.

Connor gently pries the letter out of Feynriel’s grasp, setting it aside. Needing something to hold, something solid, Feynriel’s fingers twist up in Connor’s robe. The tears and snot are making a big, wet stain on the front of Connor’s robe and Feynriel feels like he can’t breathe. The gentleness of Connor’s touch undoes any control Feynriel might have otherwise attempted.

He’ll explain when he can speak again. But his world is shattering right now and there is nothing Feynriel can do to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect to continue that prompt, but the dice decided and here we go. Currently a series in three parts, for once, not Connor falling apart.
> 
> For the record, I don't think anyone is blameless in that quest chain. Everybody cocks it up. Hawke, Merrill, Marethari... Not that my opinion matters, you have your own, but there it is.
> 
> That doesn't make Feynriel's heart any less broken, mind you. It really doesn't matter whose fault anything is when his mentor is dead.


	43. #4 - In Your Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of "A Shoulder to Cry On" - Feynriel tries to tell Connor what has him so upset, and Connor's still there to hold him through the grief - with or without a clear explanation of what's going on.

Eventually Feynriel cries himself dry and catches his breath. Connor pulls him close, apparently unbothered by the soggy mess of his robe. Feynriel shudders, struggling to breathe under the weight of his grief, trying to let the pain become abstract. He focuses on small realities. The steady beat of Connor’s heart beneath his ear, the warm strength of his friend’s arms.

“They were important to you,” Connor murmurs, guessing the obvious.

“Keeper Marethari,” Feynriel rasps, voice worn down and raw. “She…there was…” His eyes well up again, voice wavering. Instead of speaking further, he gestures vaguely at where he thinks Connor set the letter. Hawke’s letter has the whole story. A story in which no one is blameless, not the Keeper’s first, not the Keeper, not Hawke himself.

Regardless of whose fault is what, Feynriel’s mentor and saving grace is still dead.

He’ll heal, eventually. In the meantime, he’s glad for Connor’s embrace and grateful not to be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the last installment of "A Shoulder to Cry On". Come on, it's more fun when Connor's the one who's vulnerable and in pain, right? That said, if only we all had that friend who we could cry all over in a time of need.
> 
> Except...most people find that amount of tears and snot disgusting... So, to my earlier question of whether this was going to be a romance or not, well, it's got to be true love of one kind or another if anyone's going to willingly allow - nay, encourage - someone else to snot over them that much.
> 
> That answers that. Thank you for reading as far as you have. Even those of you who aren't commenting (assuming you exist?)!


	44. #17 - I Walked with Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Feynriel chat about the heroes who saved them.

“So, the tutor your mother hired had been ordered by the king’s general to poison your father, and the Hero of Ferelden was the one who saved you from the demon,” Feynriel says slowly, trying to connect the complicated story in his head. His summary is just the tail end. “That’s…an impressive and very tangled web.”

“You’re forgetting the part where I tried to convince Katrione to marry my uncle. She prefers women though, so that didn’t work.” Connor sips his tea, smiling. “But I wasn’t rescued by the Champion of Kirkwall. Twice.”

Feynriel’s cheeks color up. “Hawke…was kind of amazing. Bullshitting those slavers into just letting me go…”

The next sip of tea comes out of Connor’s nose when he bursts out laughing. “You have a crush! On Hawke! Oh, this is priceless.”

“What? Shut up. Stop laughing at me.”

Connor looks up from behind his now-soggy sleeve, eyes glittering. “But laughing’s so much fun. You should try it sometime.”

Feynriel grins. “Well, I suppose it is rather silly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter could have been more serious. I intended it to be, but I rolled it up right after writing Feynriel as a sobbing, broken mess. And you've probably figured out that I like to alternate between angst and humor. By now, anyway. It's only the forty-fourth installment, after all.
> 
> At any rate, if you actually think about the politics of the Blight, it's pretty freakin' complicated. Who does what to whom when, and how that chain-reacts into everything else... Poor Feynriel's having trouble keeping up because the story keeps backtracking on him. What you hear is the tl;dr version in his summary.
> 
> And hopefully the idea of a twelve/thirteen-year-old Connor trying to matchmake his uncle with a lesbian(mage) gives you a giggle or two. And then there's the slightly wonderstruck Feynriel, which Connor gets a laugh out of even if you don't. Still, I think being able to make slavers give up a prize catch with words alone is rather impressive (at least from the POV of aforementioned catch). Anyway, more Feynriel's feelings than Connor's, mostly because a) my word limit and b) I think I gave you Connor's feelings in previous chapters.


	45. #5 - The Sound of Your Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel's not generally a fan of poetry...unless Connor's reading it aloud.

Quiet nights like this one are Feynriel’s favorites, he thinks. Warm and sleepy, tucked into bed with his head pillowed on Connor’s lap, listening to Connor read poetry. Connor has an excellent voice for poetry, giving life to otherwise listless words on a page.

“Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night,” Connor reads, and Feynriel sinks into the sound. He isn’t a poetry person, doesn’t see the point of it most times, but this could become a nightly ritual and he would be happier for it.

Until Connor’s hands get tired from holding up the book and he begins using Feynriel’s head as a bookrest, but he doesn’t stop reading, so Feynriel puts up with the indignity.

For the moment, nothing exists save for warmth, comfort, and Connor’s voice, and Feynriel savors the lulling sense of peace for as long as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "O you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me,  
> O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you,  
> Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,  
> Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,  
> Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night,  
> By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon,  
> The messenger there arous'd, the fire, the sweet hell within,  
> The unknown want, the destiny of me." - From "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking", Walt Whitman
> 
> I imagine Connor reading Whitman, for some reason. This passage makes me think of Connor, oddly enough - I don't know why. It just does, and I think that's probably the point of a lot of Walt Whitman's poetry.
> 
> Ahem. So, a quiet night for the lads, kind of blessedly uneventful after some of the crap I've put them through. Also, I'm a dipshit who can't spell. My dyslexia and the amount of time I'd set down DA2 teamed up to confuse my spelling of Feynriel's father's name. Vincento. Where'd that z come from? Eh, sorry about that. Also, all y'all are supposed to headslap me when I do things like that. Please.


	46. #44 - Over My Dead Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prelude to "Bloodied Knuckles". Connor deals with a racist bully in true Fereldan style.

“Half-breeds like him are unnatural. Freaks of nature.”

Connor tries to ignore Ireta’s son’s inane ramblings. The pretentious little chit isn’t worth paying attention to. Connor doesn’t even know his name – just that his mother is a volatile magister and he’s got all the sense of a teenager.

The brat is a teenager, come to think. That alone should invalidate everything that comes out of his mouth.

“Half-knife ear should be in the slave pens with the rest of his kind. It’s all they’re good for. You know knife ears. They’re too stupid to live free anyway.”

“You need to shut up now,” Connor growls.

“You’re defending him? Oh, oh I get it. You’re a knife-ear loving pervert. You’re one of those sick freaks. Maybe you’d come to your senses if I taught him a lesson.”

“You’ll get anywhere near Feynriel over my dead body.”

“What do you care? He’s not even hu--!”

Connor’s knuckles split open against the brat’s teeth. He doesn’t want to hear the rest of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I ought to write something wherein we discover a small taste of what set Connor off badly enough to beat the ever-loving shit out of Ireta's still-nameless son. So, a small taste.
> 
> Also, I have occasionally run across sensible teenagers. A rare breed, but not extinct. I feel I ought to make sure that's said, before I irrevocably offend anyone between 13 and 19 who happens to be reading this. Also, I've actually heard some of the commentary Ireta's son is spouting, although the elf references are purely Dragon Age and the slavery references were in early literature. (Thomas Jefferson, I believe, disliked the institute of slavery but thought that blacks were too stupid to survive as free people -- eh, pardon?)


	47. #61 - Magical Mishaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In homage to one of my favorite Bioware titles, and one of my favorite items from that title. Connor finds a belt. Feynriel is confused.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Feynriel swallows hard. Maybe he has. Because when he got up this morning, he was sure his best friend was male.

“You…”

“…were hoping you’d find this funny, actually.” Connor shrugs oddly narrower shoulders, which jostles the nicely proportioned but completely out-of-place cleavage. “It’s a cursed belt. Oh, don’t look at me in that tone of voice, Feynriel, I know exactly how to take it off. Althea was looking through her collection of trinkets this morning. She knew the belt did something, forgot what, precisely.”

“So she put it on you?”

Connor nods, grinning. “It was kind of a shock. But Althea’s nicer to girls anyway and this comes off with an easy dispel, so I thought I’d wear it today. So, how do I look?”

Feynriel’s mind supplies adjectives. Beautiful, enticing, lovely, or, for something less revealing about his feelings, different also comes to mind.

But what he says is, “Well, your height finally makes sense.”

He subsequently discovers that Connor hits just as hard as a girl as s/he does as a young man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baldur's Gate - the Girdle of Gender(bending). I loved that thing. I learned how to use the console just so I could cheat it in and gender-flip my characters.
> 
> Anyone else? No? Maybe it was just me. It was fun, though. Ah, maybe most people would panic to suddenly find themselves magically changed into the opposite sex by a belt that won't unbuckle, but Connor does know how to take it off. Besides, I imagine that being an interesting 'day in the life of' experience.


	48. #15 - Abuse of Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one knows what a somniari's power SHOULD be used for, but this definitely isn't it...

Ordinarily sleep entails nightmares for Connor. He dreams of Redcliffe nightly, re-living the horror he wrought there as a child possessed by a demon, the damage he doesn’t deserve to forget.

And then sometimes he doesn’t dream of Redcliffe. Particularly when someone else is in control of his dreams. Usually, that means Yearn – the selfsame demon responsible for his dreams of Redcliffe in the first place.

And sometimes it isn’t Yearn.

Maybe when his best friend can shape the Fade at a whim, he should expect dreams like this once in a while. Walking through a field of daffodils and a museum of erotic sculpture, superimposed – the museum has a field for a floor and the daffodils are growing around the sculptures.

Who knew Feynriel’s imagination could be this lurid? Some of the sculptures are absolutely improbable.

“This is a complete abuse of your power, you know.”

Feynriel laughs, nonchalantly leaning against a statue of a giant phallus. “Of course it is. But we all have to have a little fun sometime, right?”

Connor stares at a statue of two women having sex and grins. “Well, yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes there's no better way to make someone feel better than to do something completely inappropriate. Distracting from the nightly nightmares? Let's throw in something with a shock-and-giggle factor and see what happens!
> 
> I think "abuse of power" was supposed to be darker than this, but I'm entirely too depressed not to grasp at silliness where I can find it. And with a power like Feynriel's...abuse of that power has endless possibilities of infinite implications.
> 
> Also, setting! For the first time ever, I give you setting. Sort of.


	49. #52 - Questioning Beliefs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor has doubts about what he's doing. Feynriel talks him off of a metaphorical ledge.

Blood-spattered and bleeding isn’t a good look for Connor. His robes are scorched and torn, blue-grey eyes vacant and unseeing. He sits in the ravaged courtyard like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Feynriel sits beside him warily, not wanting to startle him.

It’s never wise to startle a mage, even one as gentle as Connor.

Feynriel knows what happened here. News travels fast, especially when a magister’s child explodes.

“You did what you could,” Feynriel says eventually, resting a hand on Connor’s knee.

“What am I even doing this for? I say a lot about finding out how to reverse possession like…what? Like I’m arrogant enough to think I can save the world all by myself? I can’t save one kid.”

“Demons have been at this a lot longer than you have, Connor.” Feynriel pulls Connor into a loose hug, ignoring the blood that seeps into his own robes – Connor’s and the abomination’s both. “You’re doing what no one else ever has. Maybe you can’t save everyone. But wouldn’t just one life be worth it?”

Connor kisses Feynriel’s cheek. “Thank you. You’re my muse, you know that, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The DA2 "Questioning Beliefs" quests usually come up after a traumatic event (or a milestone influence change, but the lads are at 100% friendship here, I think). One of the companions screws up something important and it's Hawke's job to talk them down.
> 
> Not that Connor screwed up here, precisely. He's just got a long way to go before his research is any good to anyone and, as Feynriel tells him, demons have been at the possession game a lot longer than he's been trying to fix it. Also, he's being unnecessarily dramatic. But that's half the fun.
> 
> Anyway, next chapter is going to be my fiftieth. (!) Holy shit, fifty chapters. Any suggestions? I may deviate from my prompt list and write something special if I get a suggestion (or two, or three...?). Got an idea, send it in! I will do my utmost to fill all suggestions rendered (within reason).


	50. The Milestone Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 50 is here! To celebrate, I've taken personal requests from various sources - commenters here, people in a DA chatroom, even personal email. I've also temporarily abandoned my word limit, so each installment is a little bit longer than usual.
> 
> Thank you, everyone who has stuck with me for fifty chapters, and especially those of you who have let me know you exist. I appreciate it more than you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared for a little absurdity and exaggeration. Not everything anyone says needs to be taken as fact, and sometimes I put capped letters in strange places for emphasis. Just...a little forewarning. ;)

=For autumnesquirrel=

 

*Wrestling*

 

Feynriel doesn’t know precisely what started this. Was it a comment he made on Connor’s heritage? A playful jab from Connor about his own? The fact that they both want the last fruit tart on that plate?

Sensible young men would simply cut the tart in half, but today, they aren’t sensible young men.

They are Determined young men.

Feynriel is also flailing uselessly. He makes a grab for Connor’s ankle in an attempt to trip his friend up, only to have Connor nimbly maneuver out of the way, laughing. Feynriel’s height and slenderness are working against him. Connor is not only shorter, he’s stockier, with a good supply of muscle built up from sparring with templars back in Ferelden.

He’d been a squire before the magic, Connor had explained once. What made Feynriel think that didn’t include training in wrestling?

Oh. Right. Connor’s usual aversion to violence.

But sparring isn’t violence, exactly, and neither is wrestling. Not to mistake violence with athleticism.

Grappling with the former noble is a lost cause, Feynriel is fast discovering. If this were the Fade he’d stand a chance, but as it is, he doesn’t. Fighting dirty, Feynriel tries to kick Connor’s feet out from under him. He manages to bruise Connor’s shin – maybe – before he’s off the ground, Connor picking him up by the waist.

Feynriel finds himself on his back, pinned under Connor’s weight, a forearm across his clavicles. Cold marble floor tiles press into his spine and his wrists are being trapped over his head by Connor’s other hand. Connor bumps his nose against Feynriel’s, grinning.

“I win. You cheat.”

Feynriel grins back. “Victory’s for the birds.”

Literally. A pair of parrots has eaten the fruit tart, rendering the impromptu wrestling match a moot point. Still, Feynriel thinks, savoring Connor’s indignant snarl, there are worse ways to pass the time.

 

*The Captain*

 

Two letters. One from Hawke, one from Katrione, each with instructions to be at the docks today. It’s a little odd. Connor might get regular letters from Katrione, but Hawke doesn’t write Feynriel altogether often. And when he does write, it’s usually bad news, not instructions to wait by the docks for some unspecified reason.

“Ah, there you are, kittens!”

The dark-skinned arms that snap around them from behind startle a yelp out of Connor, but Feynriel laughs.

“Isabela!”

“That’s Captain Isabela, I’ll have you know,” she retorts, white teeth vividly bright against the rich dark of her Rivaini complexion. “Some old friends of mine asked if I could check up on you boys. Gotten into any exciting trouble lately?”

“Oh,” snorts Connor, chuckling. “Oh, you’re Isabela. That Isabela. Katrione writes fondly of you. Very fondly.”

“No demons lately,” Feynriel answers. “And…nothing sexy either, if that’s what you’re really asking.”

The disappointed set to the pirate queen’s face says that Feynriel has guessed correctly.

“We have half of Tevinter scared shitless of us, if that’s any consolation,” Connor offers, grinning. “Especially Fade-walker here. They seem to think he’s going to get them in their sleep.”

“Oh, what I would do with a power like yours,” Isabela sighs, patting Feynriel’s cheek. “Just think of the possibilities!”

Feynriel chokes, flushing scarlet. Connor cackles.

“Sail the boundless seas of the Fade for the kinds of adventure you can only imagine?” Connor’s shoulders are shaking, but his voice is relatively level. “Ooh, and maybe some piratical debauchery on the side?”

“What, did you think I was talking about sex?” Isabela tweaks Feynriel’s nose. “Well, that too, but your friend here has some good ideas. Sex might be fun, but my true love is the sea.”

They find somewhere to eat and talk, Isabela sharing a few of her stories about Hawke and the Warden, Connor and Feynriel telling a few of their own about the peculiarities of the land they’re studying in. Isabela’s posing is mostly out of habit by this time. Her bosom is eye-catching and she knows it. However, when she fails to draw the usual attention – from two warm-blooded young men even – she tries harder. It’s a test, nothing serious.

When she leans over the table to snag the pepper for her meal, flashing them both a long look down the front of her corset, and they both maintain eye-contact without faltering, she learns something very important.

And very fun.

Ah, if only these boys were close enough to her to appreciate friend-fiction…

 

*The Brat*

 

Magister Ireta ought to know better than to take on Magister Adrastos, Connor thinks, watching the volatile female magister slinging blood magic at his sometimes-mentor. Adrastos is not himself a blood mage, but he is a highly skilled battlemage, and the fight is hardly equal.

“She’s doomed if she’s not careful,” Feynriel comments airily. “Adrastos is bloody terrifying. Why do you study with him again?”

“He has a well-stocked library,” Connor offers. “And he’s nice to me. I saved his daughter from a demon.”

“Best not to tell him that it was your demon to begin with, I suppose.”

“There is that.” Connor shrugs, idly adjusting the set of his sleeves. The Tevinter sun beats down mercilessly. Connor squints up at it before returning his gaze to the ongoing battle. Bullets of blood are freezing midair and shattering on the cobblestones in shards of cherry black, melting quickly in the heat to a color that isn’t storybook crimson. “I think he has his suspicions anyway, but I did de-possess his daughter, so…”

The Veil trembles. Ireta, possibly aware that she’s sorely out-matched, has drawn a deep casting wound up her left forearm and demons are rising from the temporary hole she’s ripped in reality. Some malformed and ragged wisps of Hunger, other undulating pillars of magmoid Rage, a solitary horned, purple demon of Desire.

Seven demons are summoned. Five charge Adrastos directly while the desire demon works her sorcery at a distance.

Of to the side of the battle, about as far from it as Connor and Feynriel are on their side, Ireta’s teenaged son begins screaming. A creature of hunger has broken loose from the pack and decided against following the orders of its summoner, instead choosing to find the nearest vulnerable host.

“It would serve him right to be devoured by a hunger demon,” Connor sighs, but readies his Circle-issue staff anyway.

“You’re better than that,” Feynriel chides, shoving Connor toward the struggle. “Go. Save the idiot. I’ll do what I can from the other side.” With that, Feynriel sits down with his back to a thin-trunked ornamental tree and then goes limp and still, just an empty body.

Connor could argue, but he’d get more response from the tree than Feynriel at this point. Annoyed, Connor huffs and jogs to the secondary battle.

He still doesn’t know the boy’s name. Connor has soundly thrashed Ireta’s son, waged psychological warfare against him, and genuinely hates him, but has no name by which to call him except Brat.

First things first. Connor drops a force field on the brat, leaving the demon irately mouthing an impenetrable barrier. Following that is a crushing prison on the demon. It’s a slow, grating death. Connor refuses to cast it on anything mortal, but demons? Demons deserve it.

It takes everything he has to maintain both spells at once. The rest is up to Feynriel in the Fade.

\\*/*\\*/

The problem with fighting demons is that it’s a battle that has to be waged on two separate fields. Trusting that Connor won’t let him down, Feynriel shifts the Fade until he finds who he’s looking for. Ireta’s son is locked in struggle with his demon.

It isn’t really combat. Not at this point. The boy is just trying to hold on while the demon devours large pieces of him, making his spirit look like holey cheesecloth.

It crosses Feynriel’s mind that this boy actively wants him thrown in the slave pens.

Or dead, whichever comes first.

But he can’t expect Connor to be better than that and then fall to his own pettiness. Feynriel might be easily spooked and possessed of a flair for unnecessary melodrama and prone to making hasty decisions he occasionally later regrets, but he isn’t a hypocrite.

He lacks spellcasting skill in the waking world, but that’s the price for his nearly unholy strength in the Fade. A twist of his will and the demon is shredded from the inside out, each fragment bursting into flames, raining ashes around its intended victim. What was taken from the boy is easily stitched back in, making his spirit whole again.

“It’s you,” the boy spits, curling his lip at Feynriel. “The half-knife-ear. I suppose you expect I owe you something.”

Feynriel shrugs. “Not particularly. I’d like it if you stopped insulting me, but that’s an unrealistic dream, even here in the Fade. Connor probably has things under control on the other side of the Veil, if you’re ready to go back now.”

\\*/*\\*/

When the crushing prison implodes on greasy ashes instead of a whole demon, Connor finally lets it and the force field drop. He drops, bruising his knees on hot cobblestones, shaking with the exertion. Sweat stings his eyes and makes his robes itchy. His staff clatters to the ground and rolls a few paces away.

Ireta’s brat struggles to his feet, grunts, and spits somewhere off to Connor’s left. That he chose not to spit directly on Connor is as much gratitude as the Fereldan mage expects.

The next thing he’s aware of is Feynriel’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m proud of you, y’know.”

Too exhausted to pay attention to the aftermath of the mage duel around him, or to even reply in any coherent fashion, Connor claps a hand over Feynriel’s and breathes, “Likewise.”

 

=For anon1879=

 

*Not the Court Jester*

 

Connor hates social settings. At best he’s trapped in a room or a courtyard of people he has little tolerance for, that he also has to smile at, while being prevented from doing anything productive, pacified only by the presence of a table full of snacks.

At worst, he’s the center of attention, the snack table is long-empty, and he doesn’t even have alcohol to numb the discomfort of conversation with people who don’t understand a word he’s saying, despite the fact that he’s speaking their language.

Sar-chasm: noun, the yawning void between the person making the joke, and the crowd that doesn’t get the joke.

Some of the more vapid magisters, who have surrounded him on the premise of his daring rescue of Ireta’s favorite son, appear to be taking him seriously as he describes his homeland of Ferelden. He speaks of canine worship, that mabari receive better education than most of the humans. The dogs are often even more literate than the humans.

It’s a joke. They’re swallowing it like it’s the Chant of Light.

He excuses himself, hiding his disgust behind an artificial smile. Hopefully the bushes in the courtyard will offer some protection against false admirers. At least it’s a garden party. The chill night winds force the magisters and their associates to clump up in the middle, and the over-use of perfume doesn’t linger in the breeze.

The next person to find him is a mage dressed in the garb of the local Chantry. It’s Tevinter, mages can be priests, and Connor swallows a groan.

“It’s admirable, that you risked so much to save a mortal enemy,” the man, Anastasius, begins. The catch at the end of his sentence leaves Connor with a sense of dread for what he knows comes next. “I think, for one so dedicated to saving souls, it is a tragedy that you have not allowed the Maker to save yours.”

“Ah, no thank you; I don’t need my soul saved again. Once is quite enough for me.”

The priest has gone from mild admiration to tepid umbrage. “How can you…?”

“Connor, darling, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Feynriel has impeccable timing when he wants to, a flair for the dramatic that matches Connor’s, and the sense of mercy to rescue Connor from the clutches of a preachy priest.

“Hey, Fade-walker.”

A swirl of brightly colored silk and a slightly tipsy Feynriel is draped over Connor’s back like a half-elven cloak. At least one of us found the alcohol, Connor thinks, lacing their fingers together.

Feynriel is just tipsy enough to be all giggles and flushed cheeks. He licks the curved shell of Connor’s ear, giggling again at the shocked widening of Anastasius’ eyes.

“We…” and the single-syllable word is stretched out over several beats, “should go somewhere more private.”

The priest’s face darkens and he hastily excuses himself, darting back into the throng of party-goers in the main part of the courtyard garden.

“Thank you for that timely rescue, Feynriel, I’m grateful, really, but did you have to lick me?”

A cold nose nudges the soft skin just under Connor’s ear. “Got rid of the priest, didn’t it?” Wine. Of course it’s wine on Feynriel’s breath; they don’t serve anything else in Tevinter. “For what it’s worth, I thought your dog jokes were pretty funny. And…you can’t blame Ans…Anastus…Anstu…the priest for not getting the ‘once is enough’ thing. That’s kind of an inside joke.”

“You’re clear enough to orchestrate a plot to make that priest run away but you’re too drunk to get his name straight.” Connor leans his head back on Feynriel’s shoulder and laughs. “Oh Fade-walker, you know I love you, right?”

 

=For Rhiannon=

 

*Adding to the Wardrobe*

 

“You’re being absurd, Fade-walker.”

“Oh, shut up. You don’t understand.”

Presumably, the thumping sound outside of the curtained stall is Connor’s head striking a wall or some other solid object.

Maybe spending three hours trying to decide between two or three nice robes is a bit frivolous, maybe. But Feynriel has never had the opportunity to dress nicely before. Not in Kirkwall, where beatings from guards and elves alike were as commonplace as hunger. Not at Sundermount, amongst the ever-practical Dalish. He’s in Tevinter now, and maybe he wants to be careful about his appearance.

Not that noble-born Connor would understand, despite his Orlesian heritage. All Connor inherited from his mother is height. Beyond that he’s Fereldan through-and-through, which includes a general disdain for frippery.

The robes are indeed frippery, Feynriel will admit this much. Fine, brightly-colored silk and extraneous bits of cord and tassels and beads. But he’s allowed this indulgence every now and again.

He’s trying on a robe of sharp, pale green and vivid light blue when Connor peeks in, probably to demand what’s taking so long. The reproach never comes. Connor instead gapes like a landed fish, which looks odd on his visually disembodied head – the rest hidden behind the stall’s curtain.

Finally, a strangled, “That’s a good look for you, Fade-walker.”

Connor does his own shopping while the tailor fits Feynriel’s robe. The Fereldan is infinitely more practical, selecting a few robes of coarser fabric that also don’t need tailoring. Connor’s done by the time the tailor has finished a few quick adjustments.

“You take too long.”

“You don’t take long enough. I thought you said you were a noble, not a random vagabond.”

Connor opens his mouth to retort, shuts it, tries again. “You know what? Take as long as you need to, Fade-walker. You’re the one with the girly good looks anyhow.”

Not even a resounding slap upside the head dulls Connor’s impish grin.

 

=For tempus_teapot=

 

*Etiquette Lessons*

 

“Straighten up. Your posture is atrocious.”

Feynriel shakes out a hand stinging from a hard smack, glaring at Magister Althea’s fan even while he squares up his shoulders.

“Too rigid. You aren’t a soldier.”

The folded wood-and-paper fan bounces from Feynriel’s skull to Connor’s, a two-for-one strike.

“I don’t know how things are done where you’re from, boys, but your foreign manners will not help you here. The other magisters will eat you alive.”

Connor had thought his etiquette lessons from home would help him. Magisters are Tevinter’s nobility after all, and he knows how to navigate nobles. Or, at least, he thought he did.

Neither Ferelden nor Orlais teaches body language to survive amongst sharks, however, speech patterns to hide the scent of blood in the water, how to survive in a social environment when the ruling body is comprised of blood mages and rampant sadists instead of Ferelden’s more straightforward werewolf-blooded lords or the shadows and bards playing the Game in Orlais.

“Learn to smile. Flatter if necessary, but above all else, show no fear. Do not insult a magister unless you are certain you can kill them.”

Althea’s voice is deep, for a woman, sharp and hard, striking as hard as her fan. Perhaps harder. Despite the rather portly figure of seven pregnancies – the last a pair of twins – there’s a certain fluid lethality about her movements, an economy better suited to an assassin or a mercenary than a healer.

Then again, the woman did fight her way to magister from slave. Connor’s willing to believe that she probably knows what she’s talking about.

However, he expected social etiquette lessons. How to conduct himself at the admittedly frequent gatherings and parties that the magisters insist upon. What he’s getting is the etiquette of survival.

Granted, this lesson is probably more useful than what he expected to learn.

 

=For Hobo=

 

*People Watching*

 

From the height of balconies and rooftops, the magisters look like brightly colored flower petals floating through the streets, blown by a lazy summer breeze. There’s a certain beauty to it from high up, too high to see their expressions or how they treat their slaves, too high to see the slaves at all.

Down at their level, observing them over lunch at a table outside of a tavern, the beauty evaporates one petal at a time. The haughty expressions, the excessive perfumes and face-paints, the elaborate silk robes that don’t hide the scarred arms and blood stains. Slaves, mostly elves, starved and beaten into submission, or blood thralls disgustingly eager to please because their minds are no longer their own.

No two magisters of rank look alike. Each favors a personal type of robe, expensively tailored, as if wearing something less conspicuous will make them less powerful, less potent, less authoritative.

It’s so very Orlesian, and yet so much more pathetic and terrifying all at once.

Only slaves glancing at him in terror and Feynriel’s disbelieving snort inform Connor that he’s spoken that last thought aloud.

A few magisters within close earshot glare venomously. None of them move to attack, however, merely sniffing in annoyance and stalking off to continue whatever they were doing before they were offended.

“The next time you want to honest,” Feynriel drawls, “you might want to do so privately.” A sip of tea, and then, quieter, “You’re probably right, but there’s still a time and a place, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again, those of you who threw suggestions at my head. Although, there was one person at least whose suggestions I missed. Cakeandviolence, I'm sorry, but this is not a pornographic work.
> 
> spicyshimmy - if you did drop a suggestion in the chatroom, I may have lost it in the flood of other comments. If that's the case, I apologize now.
> 
> To those whose comments I did fulfill - let me know if I met your expectations...and feel free to headslap me if I missed the mark.
> 
> At any rate, this concludes my Chapter 50 milestone celebration! Now back to the regularly scheduled short pieces off of the prompt generator...


	51. #19 - A Comforting Embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actionless speculation on the power of the humble hug.

Sometimes the one cure for a bad day is a hug.

Connor’s father tried to verbally beat that instinct out of him and Feynriel’s father was never there to begin with.

Tevinter being what it is happens to be as full of bad days as good, sometimes lacking balance in one direction or the other. On these days, both young men find themselves grateful for the camaraderie they’ve found as a pair of outcasts in a foreign land, as young men trying to grow into themselves and their magic in a hostile environ, as souls less lonely for the friendship.

The best part of such deep, visceral companionship is the freedom to hug without reservation. An embrace and a few simple words, whether it’s, “Why so blue, Fade-walker?” or, “Connor, what’s the matter?” or, “Just…hold me, please?” and suddenly the world is just a little less bleak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boring chapter. Maybe I needed a break from the excitement last chapter? Ha, not really, but I wasn't sure what all I was doing, exactly. Still, I like balance. Angst and humor, action and inaction...
> 
> *whistles*
> 
> Still, I've crested fifty chapters. I never, ever thought I'd do that. Not in this lifetime at least...
> 
> *is still shell-shocked*


	52. #22 - Frivolous Spending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor spends some time shopping. Probably part one of a two-part thing.

Connor is usually only a little attracted to shiny objects. He doesn’t wear much by way of jewelry, except maybe the ring he got from the Circle for passing his Harrowing. However, he’s come to the trinket vendors in the Minrathous marketplace for a reason.

There’s also a reason he’s here alone.

It takes him two hours of searching, but he finally finds something worth the effort. It’s a necklace. The pendant is a silver owl with wide, faceted peridot eyes. Not a creature of the day or the night, revered as holy and feared as a bad omen by turns, neither here nor there, it reminds Connor very strongly of Feynriel.

Its eyes are exactly the same color, too.

He over-pays by fifty silvers for a useless bauble with no useful qualities, but if Fade-walker likes it, it’ll be worth everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Owls are confusing birds. Mostly active at night, but they do occasionally putter around in daylight hours. People can't seem to decide whether they're good or evil (or maybe just birds). It's that half-ness that makes me (and through me, Connor) think of Feynriel. Got one foot on both sides of every line he comes across, which is what makes him interesting even as it sets him apart and makes him sort of a pariah.
> 
> Sometime later you'll get the part where Feynriel actually gets his pretty new bauble. Maybe next chapter, if I remember to do this in order...


	53. #71 - Care Enough to Confront

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She's a flawed woman, but she's still your mother." Connor tries to make Feynriel see that maybe mothers are doing the best they can with what they have when the only available options are 'Bad' and 'Worse'.

Feynriel feels betrayed by his mother. The exiled Dalish woman who swore to protect her son and then nearly handed him to the templars to be made Tranquil. Connor understands his feelings. He can also understand Arianni’s feelings.

“Sometimes,” Connor says finally, because it hurts him to see Feynriel struggling with these harsh feelings, “the people who love us most can only see two fates before us. Worst-case scenario, and something worse than that. Your mother was doing all she could to protect you.”

“She nearly gave me to the bloody templars! They would have made me Tranquil; you don’t know what Kirkwall was like -!”

“I don’t need to. I have a mother whose son was an abomination who killed a lot of people. My uncle – who loves me dearly – was willing to cut my head off to stop the carnage. That’s the fate your mother was trying to protect you from. When it seemed like the only choices were a horrible, ugly death-by-demon or the Circle, your mother would have chosen the Circle.”

Feynriel doesn’t speak for a long time after. Whether he can ever forgive Arianni, only time will tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another thing these boys have in common besides the player-hero coming in to save them (or not, depending on how you play) is having mothers that can't quite figure out how to play guardian in extraordinary circumstances. Extraordinarily bad circumstances.
> 
> Isolde...whether you love her or hate her, you do have to admit that she does everything she can think of to protect Connor. She does it wrong, of course, but she tries. She may even die for him. As written here, Connor has had time to make peace with that. His mother is a deeply flawed and sometimes completely absurd woman, but she loves him that much. Feynriel, on the other hand, is still smarting over a perceived betrayal. Arianni is doing what she can to protect her son when she realizes she doesn't have the resources to save him from himself...and as far as she knows, the Dalish might just shoot him on sight and have nothing to do with him. All he sees is her trying to give him over to the madness in the Gallows. Isolde and Arianni really have a lot in common here - doing their best with the worst Fate has to throw at them. And because the boys can't agree on everything, here is Connor trying to smack some sense (and forgiveness) into Feynriel's head.
> 
> Sorry about the long-ass note. These things get away from me sometimes...


	54. #88 - Unexpected Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of "Frivolous Spending". Feynriel gets his present.

“Even so, I have to disagree with that priest. Spirits and demons aren’t just sins and vir- eh?” Feynriel veers off mid-sentence, eyes crossing momentarily, attempting to focus on whatever’s dangling in front of his nose.

It’s a pendant, hanging from a cord dangling from Connor’s fingers. An owl with gold-green gemstone eyes, crafted from silver. Good workmanship, too.

“You got one of those out of order. Either ‘demons’ or ‘virtues’ has to come first. This is for you, by the way.”

Feynriel blinks a few times, trying to comprehend precisely what’s happening. It isn’t his name-day, any discernible holiday in any culture he can think of…

“Um, why? I mean, thank you, but…”

Connor gets impatient with walking backwards, stops Feynriel, and slips the black silk cord over Feynriel’s head, letting the owl come to rest over his friend’s heart.

“Because I like you, Fade-walker. It reminded me of you, a little, so I got it for you.”

Connor’s hands linger on Feynriel’s chest, and Feynriel colors crimson out to the tips of his half-point ears, smiling in spite of himself.

“Thanks, Connor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I forgot to put this in chronological order. Because I'm a total dipshit, but that's nothing new. That's a joke, by the way - I'm not quite as bitterly self-deprecating as I sometimes come across in text. Ahem.
> 
> Connor feels compelled to correct Feynriel's sentence structuring before explaining what he's doing, and Feynriel can't figure out why he should be getting a gift. Communication is important, but in reality, nobody actually does it right. I was aiming for realism, a little bit. Not that I'm not always *aiming*, that's my job as a writer, but now I'm actually remembering lessons I learned in creative writing classes.
> 
> Also, it's sometimes embarrassing to be awkward about gifts, hence Feynriel's blushing. Maybe that word limit was a bad idea. Oh well. Too late to change that now...


	55. #68 - Thank the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who does an atheist thank for good fortune? The stars have no religious denomination - maybe they're safe.

Connor’s life is one of mixed regrets and privately shameful gratitude. Shameful, because being where he is today took the loss of too many lives, grateful, because the world is so much bigger than he was ever allowed to think it was.

He murdered a lot of people as an abomination. He never deserved a second chance at life.

But if he’d never gotten that second chance…

If he’d never gotten that second chance he wouldn’t be dozing on this couch right now, a heavy book closed on his chest, a finger holding his place, head on his best friend’s lap, listening to Feynriel’s animated renditions of Dalish history.

Feynriel’s version is, Connor assumes, heavily paraphrased, but perhaps more entertaining for it.

He’s not elf enough to worship the Creators like Feynriel does, and he doesn’t have Ancestors like the dwarves, and he doesn’t believe in the Maker anymore either, grown out of faith the way he’s grown out of children’s tales. Connor’s not willing to thank any of these greater powers for where he is and who he’s with.

Maybe he can thank the stars, instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who DOES an atheist thank for good fortune? Well, no one, in all honesty. Once you commit to atheism, you kind of have to stick to it. However, there was this prompt, and...
> 
> Ahem. I imagine Feynriel telling all the Dalish stories the same way Connor reads poetry, a trade of lore, an exchange of culture, a private ritual no one else would understand. I also imagine Feynriel telling the Dalish stories the same way I explain mythology - a bit absurdly, re-phrasing things for time and attitude content (Officially, Narcissus nobly wastes away pining after his reflection in a pool of water, his body crumbles to dust, and a single flower grows from his remains. The way I tell it, he starves to death because he's too busy jacking off and making kissy-face at his reflection to take care of himself, and then this flower happens to grow where he died - something like that). Sarcasm could at least be applied to the initial spark of the Chantry vs. The Dales debate.
> 
> Now I should go back to one of several research papers due this quarter. This chapter? Procrastination. I may not be the king of it, but I certainly rank knave, at least.


End file.
